


and now he's so devoid of color he don't know what it means

by MermaidMayonnaise



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: ART IN CH 2, Angst, High School AU, M/M, Too many adults write SGA I've read maybe one of these, implied and then... not implied sex, millennial problems, no literally i mean that in all definitions of the term, the public library is a cool place! go visit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-10 17:47:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20532065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MermaidMayonnaise/pseuds/MermaidMayonnaise
Summary: "I asked my parents to let me go to a private school," Rodney sighed the sigh of the long-suffering, "preferably somewhere with a good physics program, but they said I need to work on my--” he air quoted “‘social skills’ or something just as asinine. I personally think I’m getting on just fine, but of course nobody bothers to askMeredith--”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My original notes at the top of the document:  
_John: misunderstood loner_ and _Rodney: local genius._  
This was written sometime in July. I abandoned it as a wip and was frustrated enough w/ schoolwork to revisit it today. It's now complete.
> 
> Self-betaed. All mistakes (and there will be some I haven't caught, mark my words) are mine.

“Are you going to give me a swirly or something just as asinine?” The boy sighed and closed his physics book. Despite its length, there were crudely scrawled notes in the margins. Mystery Boy was wearing a shirt covered with equations and Greek letters that on the back said: _ And let there be light. _“Fine, just let me put some papers away.”

The bullies let him, surprisingly. The boy, the front of whose shirt proclaimed _ Rodney McKay, _ tucked his pencil behind his ear and said, “Let’s get this over with, shall we?” and was promptly frogmarched in the direction of the bathroom.

McKay chattered all the way there, but it didn’t seem like a nervous filler. It was possible that he just liked to hear himself talk. John tuned him out for most of the walk anyway.

The doors of the bathroom loomed up in front of them, and McKay still didn’t look frightened. John was impressed with the nerd’s casualness. He cleared his throat; best not to squeak in front of someone clearly smarter than him. “Get out much?”

“No, not really,” McKay sighed, “and when I do, this always seems to happen. I asked my parents to let me go to a private school, preferably somewhere with a good physics program, but they said I need to work on my--” he air quoted “‘social skills’ or something just as asinine. _ I _ personally think I’m getting on just fine, but of course nobody bothers to ask _ Meredith--” _

“Hm,” John said, frightened by the deluge of words but, for some reason, curious. He gestured to his posse with a casual swipe of his hand. “Leave. I got this.”

“You sure?” Brad, a generic thug that John collected as armor, said.

John flashed him a patented lazy smile. “‘Course.”

They left, and it was just him and Rodney in the bathroom. There was a song about that, he was pretty sure.

For the first time, Rodney opened his mouth then shut it. “What was that for?”

“I’m bored,” John said, leaned against the sink and put his hands in his pockets. “Sup.”

“Wow,” McKay said sarcastically, waving his hands, “whoop de dang doo. Couldn’t you have thought of this _ before _you dragged me when I was on my way to the lab? Data doesn’t record itself, you know.”

John propping himself against the bathroom wall instead; the sink had been digging into his hip. “And you’d rather be choking on toilet water than talking to me right now?”

“Touché.” McKay was quiet for a total of three seconds. “So what now?”

“Well,” John said slowly, “I have a reputation to maintain. So we’re going to get in the biggest stall, close the door--” McKay raised his eyebrows at that “--I’m going to flush the toilet a few times, and you’re going to gargle water from the sink.”

“Let me guess. I’ll do your math homework in exchange, and then we’ll both go on our merry ways.”

“I don’t _ need help wi--” _John said, suddenly irritated, then stopped. “Yep.”

McKay scrutinized him. “You’re not one those jocks that is secretly a smart nerd in disguise, are you? Because that’d be incredibly generic, and I’ve discerned that although your personality isn’t incredibly developed, I thought you were _ slightly _more complicated than that.”

John stared at him in disbelief. “Did you _ want _to gargle piss today?”

McKay held up in hands, placating. “Of course not! I just have an elevated intelligence and no filter.”

“You’re so weird,” John said and put his head in his hands. “How have you not gotten beat up before?”

“I’m quick, wily, and my mother made me take Krav Maga lessons from age five,” McKay said promptly, and John groaned.

“Okay, here’s what’s going to happen.” McKay clapped his hands. “You’re going to let me go, and I really will help you with your homework. Not English or any of those useless liberal arts classes-- write your own damn essays. I’m pretty good at calculus, though.” McKay brightened. “You’re bad at calculus, right? Or haven’t taken the class yet. Let’s get a head start! That’ll put a dent in the social hierarchy.”

He dragged John out of the stall and to the bathroom door, then halted with his hand on the metal. “Are they still outside?”

John shook his head, slightly overwhelmed. “No, they’ll have gone by now.”

“Perfect,” McKay said, then grinned suddenly. “This is going to be so much fun!”

-

Rodney’s definition of ‘so much fun’ was vastly different than John's.

After they left the bathroom, McKay had dragged him to the physics lab, (pushing some poor freshman out of the way yelling, “Misunderstood local genius coming through, make way!”) which turned out to be nothing more than the back of the AP physics classroom, but it painful enough for John to be there that he let out a little embarrassing squeak when he saw the painted physics equations above the classroom entrance and dug in his heels at the door.

“Oh, don’t be a baby, Sample doesn’t bite,” McKay said, and pushed him in.

The teacher, whose name actually was Mr. Sample and who John only knew through urban legend, didn’t even look up from grading tests. “School’s over. Go home, Rodney.”

“I need to finish the lab,” McKay told him brusquely. “Sheppard’s here to help.”

At that, Sample put down his pen. “Sheppard? Quarterback?”

John, pleased that someone in the science department knew his name, stuck out his hand. “That’s me.”

Sample scanned him, a brief up and down through his glasses, and shook his hand firmly. “Nice to see you here. Are you planning on taking real physics?”

“Nah,” John said, smiling easily, “the honors course is hard enough.”

“That’s not what your math teacher told me,” Sample deadpanned, then cracked a smile. “What did Rodney say to drag you here?”

“Quite a lot, actually,” John replied with an equally straight face.

McKay, who had sprinted to the back of the classroom and was calibrating some expensive equipment or other, squawked. “I’m in the room!”

John, who was now the best of friends with the AP Physics teacher, said, “Exactly,” in unison.

-

After helping McKay record his data, they had exchanged phone numbers (him and McKay, not with his new best friend), with McKay promising to repay not getting swirlied with a physics tutoring lesson. John had protested, but secretly he was relieved; it wasn’t like any of the football team could help him, and physics was difficult as all hell.

They scheduled for next Monday: John had a big test the next day and it was the only afternoon that he didn’t have football practice. The damn marching band apparently ‘needed the field,’ whatever that meant. McKay didn’t have a car due to his ‘near-dyspraxic state of physical capability’ and was incredibly grateful when John picked him up from the physics classroom (“Please get him out of here,” Sample said, putting Newton’s Cradles back in a box stuffed with packaging peanuts) and offered to let him ride in his car.

After complaining about how humiliating it was to ride on the bus next to freshmen two feet shorter and with a lot more metal in their mouth than he did, McKay settled back into the car’s faux-leather upholstery and voiced his approval. John, who had turned the engine on and was appreciating its smooth rumble, felt inordinately smug.

When they got to John’s house, it was dark and the windows were shuttered. “A prime example of classic American privacy,” McKay said. “You see, in _ Canada--” _and continued to babble as John unlocked the front door and let them both inside the empty house.

He had transitioned to talking about the various merits and failures of the American school system when John tossed him a granola bar, half expecting to see a fumbling catch and was pleasantly surprised when McKay caught it with one hand while shamelessly rooting through his refrigerator. On second thought…

“What are you doing?” John said, watching various aspects of the three main food groups (garlic bread, cheese in a can, and sauerkraut) being tossed onto the floor.

“Looking for something edible and cold,” McKay said. “Did you know that you have no fresh vegetables in your house? I’m no biologist--” he shuddered at the thought “--but even I can identify several types of fungi on these tomatoes.”

John, his mouth slightly agape, went to pick up the various foodstuffs and throw them into the overflowing trash can. Hurricane McKay settled in at his kitchen table in a flurry of papers and insults, and goddamn physics better be worth it.

-

“No, no,” McKay said brusquely, and it was thirty agonizing minutes later and John thought that McKay might either be the smartest or the single most annoying person he’d ever met. “Not like that, don’t be stupid--”

John didn’t say anything, just angrily listened to McKay insult various parts of his education, red seeping steadily into his vision until finally he yelled, “I don’t get it, okay? I’m stupid, alright?” and smacked the table, and McKay, to his credit, didn’t even jump at the scattering of pencils.

“You’re not _ stupid, _ Sheppard,” McKay said, and it was almost a compliment except that he sighed right afterward. “Just, look--” And then for the next fifteen minutes he drew diagrams on paper and made crazy hand gestures and John found himself grabbing a pen and joining in.

-

“Do you see now?” McKay said, not unkindly, and John said, “Oh,” then “_ Oh,” _and found that he did.

-

John ended up getting at 98 on the test. McKay berated him over the lost points (“Relativity is so simple even _ cheerleaders _ could grasp the basic concepts, are you a cheerleader, Sheppard? _ Are you?) _but when John looked away, he saw McKay’s lips twitch upwards, pleased.

-

The next Monday they met at McKay’s house. A middle schooler decorated with braces and, bless her soul, bright pink hair ribbons, ran up to meet them on the sidewalk.

“This is my sister,” McKay said absently. “Go away, Jeannie.” He was explaining the difference between parametric and polar equations (and Christ, there were many), which John appreciated greatly. 

“Hi, Jeannie,” John said to her, and she beamed the smile of those blessed by having high schoolers deem them worthy of conversation.

“Anyway, Sheppard--” McKay said, obviously wanting to move on, but Jeannie sang, “Oooh, Mer has a _ boyfriend,” _ and McKay sputtered made indignant shooing motions at her.

John was caught completely off guard by that. “Hold up. Did you call McKay _ Mer?” _

“No,” McKay lied, walking quickly past Jeannie and pulled John through the doorway, past the kitchen and the dining table and through the second door on the left and into what evidently must be McKay’s room. “And I’m not going to apologize for the mess.”

And what a mess it was. All of the clothes were folded neatly in the closet, but the floor and most of the walls were covered in computer paper that were completely scrawled over with McKay’s illegible handwriting. If he craned his neck, he could see that the equations continued onto the ceiling, though, seeing no ladder in sight, couldn’t ascertain exactly how they’d gotten there.

“Don’t like, don’t look,” McKay said snidely upon seeing his expression, slinging his backpack off his shoulder and digging out a few papers, grabbing tape that was located on his bedside and attaching them to the wall. Somehow he found space, which was the real genius move there.

John made a strangled noise instead of words, craning his head up and around and sideways. “What… what the hell is this?”

“I’m writing a proof for one of the Millenial Problems,” McKay said distractedly, reaching for a pencil behind his ear and not locating one. He snapped his fingers absently. “Do you have--?”

Slightly annoyed that he understood McKay’s obscure signals, John handed him one from his backpack and observed as McKay frantically scribbled another note. John recognized some Riemann Sums and trig but couldn’t make heads or tails of how they fit into the greater whole. In fact, he thought as he looked around the room, he had no idea whatsoever about any of it.

“Somehow this doesn’t look to me like a homework assignment,” John said, rubbing his neck.

McKay, who was now hunched over his desk scribbling and muttering to himself, jolted and gave a small huff of amusement. “Oh. Hm. Yes, I suppose not.”

“What do you get out of this?” John walked around the room, slightly awed. 

“Probably nothing, just a little practice,” McKay said, still engrossed. “If I’m right, though, and I manage to prove this damn thing, probably a full scholarship to MIT, but that was obviously in the works anyway. Maybe if CalTech doesn’t outbid them first.” He paused. “Oh, and a million dollars, obviously.”

Ironically, that was when John realized McKay was out of his league, and _ he _was the one who played sports.

“Okay, I’m done,” McKay said, sitting up straight and shaking his right hand out.

“Done as in… done the proof?”

McKay really laughed at him this time, tipping his head back, so John frowned and chucked a notebook at him.

-

They were in McKay's room again. John’s house was too quiet, and if they closed the door, the screams and shouts from downstairs were muffled, mostly. When John raised his eyebrows the first time, McKay just said, "Psychotic parents, what can you do," and uncharacteristically clammed up. 

John shrugged and let it go, and instead helped McKay graciously recruited him to jump on his bed to get another piece of paper onto a bare spot on the ceiling. He didn't even complain too much when McKay twisted his ankle on his own pillow and tumbled sideways onto the bed, grabbing John’s pant cuff and taking them both down.

In retaliation, John grabbed the pillow and whacked McKay, both giggling like children, and when they got tired they lay panting on the floor.

McKay was still spitting out feathers while he finished helping John with physics, and once again John was grudgingly amazed by McKay’s natural competence at the subject. When he said so, McKay simply shrugged. “I already told you that I’m a genius. Did you really expect otherwise?”

-

McKay was obnoxious most of the time, sure, but in the face of math he settled down somewhat. They had started doing their physics homework together on a regular basis, McKay staying a little later after school until John was finished with his football practice. Well, he had to. But it was nice of him to not excessively complain.

McKay’s house eventually became off-limits (he wouldn’t elaborate n why and John didn’t ask), so they needed another space.

They argued over where to go (John suggested the chemistry lab and McKay retaliated with the dumpster, which was fair) but eventually, McKay snapped his fingers and said, “I know just the under-utilized place,” and pushed him towards the public library.

It was easier going to the library than to each other’s houses to study. McKay’s house had Jeannie and his dysfunctional parents and John’s house was the three Ds: dark, dusty, and depressing. The library was right across the street from the high school; anyway, it was a matter of convenience.

-

On one of the rare instances the library was closed, he and Rodney situated themselves upon the ugly floral couch in John’s empty house, working on their separate assignments in companionable silence. Rodney had his huge binder spread out over the coffee table, and John, bored, had his head propped on his hand and elbow on the arm of the couch, idly watching him work.

It looked like Rodney was an artist, staring down at the paper and writing nonsensical symbols so far above John’s current understanding of math that it was just symbols that were part of the bigger picture, interlinking and spreading steadily across the table like watercolor on paper.

He felt his eyes glazing, comforted by the constant _ scritch scritch _of Rodney’s pencil and the occasional shuffling as he moved his notes around, squinting at different angles as if a change in viewpoint would incite a revelation.

John had been watching Rodney work on the same problem for some time now, and while it was still nonsense, he did have an instinct for the problem as a whole. When Rodney’s pencil stopped for a longer period than usual, John entertained the idea of being able to _ hear _him thinking.

Rodney looked tired, John decided, and that’s the only reason that John dared to point at an equation and quietly said, “This doesn’t make sense.”

“What do you mean?” Rodney snapped, and, oh yes, he was exhausted. “It makes perfect sense.”

“No,” he said, leaning closer. The myth was still strange and alien, but he thought he got it now, the numbers and letters blending and interweaving together, and suddenly John could see, _ John could see, _and now he realized why Rodney loved it with such a passion.

Math was football, in a way, the twisting equations blending and forming and working as a part of a greater whole, and distantly John could hear the wind whistling in his ears as he ran down the football field, sneakers pounding on the turf and his breath loud and gasping; it was the same feeling of weightlessness and euphoria and interconnectedness when everything clicked together perfectly, completely, absolutely.

There was one part of the paper that didn’t make sense, made him stumble because it was _ wrong, _ a blight in the play, and John didn’t know how he knew but that didn’t change the fact that he _ did. _

John jabbed his finger at the paper, certain of himself. “The sigma appears twice in this equation. I think you accounted for it already; yeah, see, right here,” and poked his pencil at the offending symbol.

Rodney had acquired that slack-jawed expression that meant that he was rapidly calculating something in his head. “I…” He snatched a piece of scrap paper, scribbling equations that scrawled across to the other end, in danger of being transferred to the table itself. “You’re right.” He looked at John as if he’d never seen him clearly before. “How…?”

John, suddenly uncomfortable, shifted in his seat, unable to articulate the sheer feeling of it.

“I mean…” Rodney continued, mostly to himself, “your math teacher said you were naturally intuitive, but this is… _ This _is...”

John, still soaring on the field, felt his brain grinding along, slowly, slowly. “You asked her... about me?”

Rodney wasn’t even paying attention to him. “The level of comprehension need to understand this, Jesus Christ, the sheer amount of IQ needed to even approach the problem--” he stood up, waving his hands up in the air and sent writing utensils and three calculators flying, “--I mean I knew you were competent, relatively speaking, but this is…” he trailed off, suddenly quiet again, looking thoughtful.

“Um, I’m right here?” John tried, because Rodney’s face was strange, and if he was anyone else, anyone at all, John would guess that it was awe; but that was impossible, absurd, Rodney was the smartest kid in the school by half, probably one of the smartest people in the entire goddamn _ population, _ and he couldn’t be impressed by _ John, _of all things.

Rodney turn to face him and stared at him some more and then snapped out of it, looking decisive. “Shut up. Just, shut up.” He sighed. “Okay, listen, I don’t usually do this, but that was probably the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen from someone in this idiot district, and you’re hot as _ fuck, _ so…” He got off the couch, took a step towards John, who was still sprawled on the couch, and got on his knees.

“Wait,” John said. “What?” 

-

Much later, after Rodney had collected his papers and his binder and his backpack and the door shut behind him with a soft click, John pulled up his pants in a daze. The only sound in the room was him zipping up his fly with slightly unsteady fingers.

John _ was _ on the football team and was no stranger to the occasional pregame letting off steam, but it was still a shock when local misanthropic genius Rodney McKay decided to put out and give him the most drawn out and fantastic blowjob that John had ever received.

He sat there as the sun’s last rays faded through the windows of the room and had a quiet conversation with himself:

Was he now considered queer if found himself attracted to a guy?

And the answer was: yeah, probably.

It was an extremely short conversation, all things considered.

-

A few months passed. John’s physics grade was the top of his class, but he kept it on the down-low. When the team complained about math and their cheating girlfriends, John nodded and said, “Mhm,” not adding anything else, and no one was the wiser.

-

At this point, the library was so used to seeing them that they had a personal table set aside for them. One day a little fifth grader tried to point to that table so that her tutor would sit with her there, but the tutor shook her head vehemently: half terrified of knowing that the librarians would forcibly remove her credibility if she took their spot and half unprepared to deal with the rage of McKay. Even in a low whisper, he was deadly.

McKay and Sheppard were already infamous among the community in their own ways, their township newsletter was peppered with their respective accomplishments. Sheppard’s name was always accompanied by ‘Star Quarterback Gets Athletic Scholarships, page 1 of 3’ and McKay always managed to win some award or another. 

McKay always complained about the ratio between the pages devoted to sports compared to virtually every other activity, which John privately thought was a valid point. He also suspected that the board of people that were in charge of STEM made awards for the sole purpose of McKay to receive them, but being the recipient of multiple awards himself, refrained from saying that as well.

Their infamy at the library was no different. Their little table in the corner was shoved against the wall, and was steadily acquiring a new wallpaper made of McKay’s equations that the librarians were too weary of begging him to remove. He just put them back up the next day, and John shook his head at him.

Kids would always come up to McKay, who would brush them off briskly and continue working, but they always came back holding their little worksheets of basic arithmetic (those were the days) and clinging to his pant legs. Eventually, McKay gave in, grumbling that he might as well prevent the incorrect work that would inevitably be turned in without his aid. His insults were met with giggles, and the kids always walked away knowing three times as much than before.

-

(John had heard stories of McKay making kids their age and adults cry during math competitions and the like, and he believed them-- but never during their library sessions had John seen anything but smiles on the little kids’ faces as they skipped away.)

-

While popular with the girls, John never had been a recipient of regular sex. Physics weren’t the only things he was learning, and he hated thinking that (stupid, cliche, how the hell had his life ended up like this) line, but he figured that he liked the feeling of Rodney gasping against his lips better.

Plus, they couldn’t go to the library _ all _of the time.

-

“Hm,” McKay said one day, pencil uncharacteristically paused above his paper.

Sheppard, who was struggling with motion problem sets in physics and wished that math would stop existing for a little while, ignored him, before noticing something was strange: McKay’s pencil was no longer scratching at his paper. The silence stretched out, and eventually John was the one who broke.

“What is it?”

Rodney was staring at the papers scattered in front of him, the table and floor littered with piles of paper crossed out with red ink, his eyes glazed and red. “I think I’m finished.”

“As in for the day?” He was _ really _hoping for some help with relativity part two as well. A black hole to him was nothing but a hole in space that was black and also did stuff to time.

“No,” Rodney said quietly. “I think I’m _ done.” _

“Oh,” said John. He was standing up without remembering doing so, holding Rodney’s hands in his own. “Oh!”

“If my math checks out…” Rodney said quietly.

“Nobel Prize, here you come.” It was everything he could do to suppress the urge to press his mouth to Rodney’s, so he threw his arms around him instead and felt a stunned Rodney hug him back.

The library erupted in cheers. John had entirely forgotten that they were there.

-

While McKay had shoved the stack of papers into his thick binder and ran top speed back to the school so Sample could check over his work (yelling “The bastard better not steal any of my work!” but half-heartedly), John just sat there in awed silence. It was _ done. _

While he was ecstatic for Rodney and his inevitable fame and fortune, he felt a little numb inside. All of that reception, praise, spectacle… Rodney would surely get whisked away instantly. Any college or university had to be downright idiotic not to accept him instantly with all of the scholarships and grants that they could afford. He could see the headlines: _ McKay, Boy Genius; McKay Does It Again; Young Physicist Breaks Known Laws of Physics. _

It’d be a bloody dogfight, and as John drove himself home in an empty car and let himself into his equally empty house, grinned at the thought of McKay turning the colleges down with a sniff and a regal wave of his hand.

John stepped into the house and stripped down into his boxers, throwing his varsity jacket and jeans near the vicinity of the couch. He poured himself a glass of orange juice from the near-empty fridge, popped a slice of bread into the toaster.

It was uncharacteristically quiet; not the house, the house was always tomb-dead, and it took John a second to realize that it was the absence of Rodney that made him slightly uncomfortable.

-

It turned out that _ all _ of the top-tier universities wanted Rodney, after that. He ended up refusing all of them, instead embarking on a mysterious three day trip that culminated in him coming home and packing his suitcase. 

John refused to speak to him. Rodney called him twenty three times and left increasingly desperate voicemails.

_ Hey, so I got offered this job-- _

_ No, it’s actually cool, I would tell you but-- _

_ Are you getting these? Call me back-- _

_ I swear to god, John fucking Sheppard-- _

John hit the Delete All button angrily.

-

_ John, I’m leaving this Tuesday at three PM. I don’t know if you’re hearing these or just being childish, but I’d really like you to-- to come. Just. To say goodbye. _

-

John showed up at Rodney’s house. Rodney was standing was a backpack and three rolling suitcases, flanked by two sharply dressed agents with headsets, for crying out loud.

Rodney waved them away and motioned for John. John stepped forward silently and they looked at each other. Rodney's eyes had dark smudges beneath them, and John wanted to take his thumb and wipe them away.

Rodney stared at him for four miserable seconds, calculating, then: “Jesus Christ,” Rodney yelled, waving his hands, “you thought I’d _ abandon _you?”

John didn’t know what to say, so he bit his lip. Hard. Then he reached out and grabbed Rodney by the shirt, kissed him hard, and pushed him away.

There was a silence between them. John felt an ache in his chest and firmly crushed it.

-

“Well…” Rodney said eventually and bit his own lip, shifting from foot to foot. “I’ll see you someday, I guess.”

(Everything had happened so quickly and it was over now, and John couldn’t do anything about it, and it hurt-- just a little, just a lot, a whole fucking lot-- and besides, what was love anyway but a series of chemical reactions and nothing was real, nothing _ is _ real except for Rodney McKay’s hands and his hips and his wheezing laugh, it’s why can you never see something until it disappears, never know what you have until it’s gone, and now he’ll never see Rodney looking over at him and smiling his dumb crooked grin ever again, never, never ever.)

John said nothing-- what could you do when there was nothing left to say-- just blinked a few times, so Rodney gave him a sad twitch of his mouth, handed his luggage to the agents and got in the car. The tires screeched as they peeled away, and John blinked in the sun. 

-

Eventually, the dust settled.

“Yeah,” John finally said over the lump in his throat, looking at the black van. His hand was still slightly raised in a goodbye, so he put it down and dug his nails into his palm. “Someday.”

-

He walked down the long gravel path back to his quiet house, went up to his room, and furiously slammed the door. A piece of paper with red scribbles drifted down from it, and he tore off a new piece of tape with his teeth and put it up on his ceiling: a memento.

-

Two long months later, something fluttered downwards and landed on John’s face during the night, and he tossed it aside. In the morning, he squinted at the cramped writing in the dim light: _ Call me. _There was a number written on the back of the paper that he hadn’t noticed before.

Despite himself, John smiled.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sometimes illustrate my stories.

“Jesus Christ,” Rodney yelled, waving his hands, “you thought I’d abandon you?”

**Author's Note:**

> The title's taken from "[Colors](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Trzzg6qL7Ic)" by Halsey, a quality artist. Lmk if you listened to the song and liked it.
> 
> My tumblr's mermaidmayonnaise, come chat about headcanons and SGA with me there! Comments make my day and kudos make the world go round.


End file.
